in
those woods such by handsaws to arrive at a petit house.
it
was a picture it was loud it was doing cartwheels; it laughed but so sensed
secrets it was so precise so legal so studious. as worlds collapse or a man discovers
errors while so compelled by chains or drivers or screws—those nuts or bolts so
low so unbent so straight it screams remorse. I can’t sleep. I ponder a
daughter. I hear a psych.
so
conducive to nothing. so driven for
nothing. so battled, classified, or
given to weeds, for nothing. but fire
is delicate or realms are concise while one is wandering, playing piano, upon
grass or glass the preacher screaming or music so lethal a kiss into darkness
so sweet.
an arrow into disbelief.
so settled into deceit. to claim love such strange language.
Love was soft pain where
it becomes science while cursed by father: his hell wires his guts in violin or
more to what we can’t succeed.
I have too many of
them I envelope sorrow but I forgot a stamp. I have an angel. it works
overtime. where fragments are you, or her, or too noisy those ears such penalty
while a person was held hostage.
somewhat its
realism, listening to its devilness, too removed from your experience; but a
kid in cymbals but a woman his name or triple passion into something hurting
its cigar;
those fledged
currencies those assumptions grieving
or bereft so
sudden such sodden suds.
so tired of
walking those rocks or kicking those problems where it didn’t ache as such.
taming or on a hook while it trickles the dead man those living arrangements
while too disappointed, too disgusted, while they ask, they yell, but never
full ocean.
but
a pagan deserving nothing so many stables
those
fair violence(s) such ventriloquist
but
we utter in silence, “It will not change.”
we
advertise dishonesties so intent to fire such guts to whisper while I sit or
stare or study—the full frenzy those velvet vexes into something curious—the
man on his boat where watching is misery while never to deny a person their
fullest appetites.
but you are the
singsong the protests the disgusted daughter. so much to repack so afforded
many rages where it isn’t as it would be, or it isn’t as it could be, while an
under-wolf longs into night-sin: arranged, large as seas a heart dragging its
knuckles.
I will you
wellness or pride or more intelligence. such sought feelings or loosened
reality as never quite getting life correctly. the work of destruction those
dedicated years, where a young lady just wants to live. so imposing a mean
tongue as it shall retract.
